


THE WAITING ROOM. 16-btvs-ats-ucsl

by iskierka



Category: Angel - Fandom, Buffy
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:21:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iskierka/pseuds/iskierka





	THE WAITING ROOM. 16-btvs-ats-ucsl

Author: Briar  
Title: The Waiting Room  
Disclaimer: WB, FOX, USA...  
Note: This is my first intentional attempt at [gasp]  
something slashy. Crossover w/ La Femme Nikita.  
Rating: G  
Summary: two dead women are briefly in the same place  
Madeline/Joyce  
Also: when trying to write happImprov -a different  
one-only this came out. i think it qualifies. it's  
strange maybe, about another white room.  
Feedback:) is enjoyed at o0briar0o@yahoo.com 

[][][]THE WAITING ROOM []

 

It's a door. Open door, meant for walking in. 

"Where am I?"

She tries again.

"Who are you?"

"Hello, Joyce."

Madeline inclines her head politely. Her face is  
devoid of expression, it troubles Joyce a bit.

"Please sit down."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Madeline."

Joyce repeats, her voice less unsure. "Where am I?"

Madeline looks at her calmly and does not say a word.

Joyce stares at the white room around her. She feels  
as if there are four white walls, but she cannot see  
them. The space seems to bend instead, a certainty of  
clean enclosure in protective sphereshelter aura of  
_otherworldly_. Different from before. It vaguely  
recalls an old milk commercial...of milky spaces. She  
senses a room, feels certain of it, though if pressed  
she would not know why or how she knew it, knows it  
doesn't matter. So she stops trying to digest her  
unquantifiable surroundings.

A round card table, the kind in little Italian bistros  
or small coffee shops in caffe-loving countries.  
Checkered red-white table cloth would be expected,  
maybe some pasta and a rotund man with a moustache  
singing with an accordion. 

But really it's just a table, and two chairs. One with  
a stranger checking her closely as though for flaws.  
Curious, curious glance.

Joyce asks, "Am I in heaven?"

"No."

"This is...this isn't hell?"

Madeline says, "This is not hell." 

Joyce looks down, and notes the smoke has cleared.  
Her feet are nude, and when glancing under the table  
she notices the other woman's black pumps. Along with  
the suit, this detail of leather, of professionalism  
suddenly has Joyce a little embarrassed.

"What do we do now?"

"We sit."

"And what?"

Madeline continues to be as devoid of expression as a  
rock cliff wall. She answers, "We wait."

Joyce wonders of asking this woman if she is an angel,  
but thinks the better of it. //She's still looking at  
me. Why is she looking at me like *that*?//

Madeline's stare is calm, cool and collected. It  
implies nothing. It agitates Joyce, but she decides  
this stare is, on the whole, also unimportant. The  
tension gradually eases from her body.

Madeline smiles, so briefly that Joyce is not sure if  
she saw it. Nevertheless, she is comforted. She smiles  
back. 

The silence is... It is neither threatening, nor laden  
with tensions. It is not blissful. There seems to be  
no larger import. Not that harps and choirs were to be  
expected anyways, or maybe gnashing of teeth/ hair  
follicles ripping at the roots/ a devil's violin/  
(whatever, a daughter would shrug) or noisier if this  
were the other place. It just is. Without dilution.  
And light. (as opposed to leaden). Silence.

It is...nice.

Joyce decides, yes she likes this place.

Joyce asks, " How long are we waiting for?"

"You'll see."

"You like being mysterious. You like having the  
advantage."

Madeline smiles for sure. "I did."

Joyce hugs her arms to herself, looks at the other  
woman as though she'd told her something devastating.

"I realized I had so much to lose. Floating upwards, I  
mean. Or not? Wherever this is. And it was strange  
because I thought it would be serene immediately. And  
it wasn't 'I will lose much' or 'I have missed much'  
but 'I am *going* to lose much.' As though it weren't  
after the fact. I couldn't tell that I'd become  
worried suddenly after and not during."

She pauses.

"I couldn't tell that I was dead."

Madeline bends to reassure her, "You're a lovely  
woman. You were very good."

Joyce asks skeptically, " 'You were very good'?? That  
sounds like something a Vulcan would say." A beat  
before she continues, "And I have no idea whatsoever  
where that came from."

"What I meant to say was that you were very kind."

"Weren't you?"

Madeline says, "I believed in the utmost good."

"With your life?"

"Yes. I suppose. I did. It really doesn't matter."

"I wish you hadn't said that, " Joyce replies  
instantaneously.

"I'm sorry."

She interjects, "I want to see about my daughters."

"Don't worry."

"How can I not?"

Madeline says it slowly. "To everything there is a  
season, and all that. If you can believe it."

Joyce smiles, reminisces. "I danced to that song in a  
field." With sun flowers or daisies.

"Good for you. I've not had the chance to dance in a  
field. Sounds pastoral."

Joyce announces, "Now you're being sarcastic."

"I mean it. Good for you."

"Hmm." Madeline has what might be amusement in her  
raised eyebrows, as though appraising something for  
purchase.

"I don't like bugs. Except maybe aphids."

"Didn't, " Joyce corrects.

Madeline speaks, "I still don't."

"What good is prejudice now?"

"I just told you a secret."

Madeline rises from her chair and cups Joyce's cheek  
in a palm.

Surprised Mrs. Summers observes, "You're warm."

"I know." She kisses Joyce soundly with a softness  
that surprises them both. Full in the mouth, a  
wordless greeting which salves the remnants of Joyce's  
inquisitive half-doubts.

Joyce is awed. "Thank you."

Madeline is close-lipped but smiling. "You took the  
words right out of my mouth."

"Where are you going?"

"It's your turn to wait."

Madeline is walking away. And Joyce speaks loudly at  
the turning profile, "How much longer before you  
decide to let go?" To which the other woman halts,  
half-turns.

// I'll be fine. Thank you for your concern, //  
Madeline thinks. Maddy thinks of all the difference  
between this fresh-dead mother and herself, her work.  
She likes to think she was a good mother herself.

//Don't worry about me,// Madeline considers.  
Not actually saying out loud, but just. Still.  
Something akin to  
// That really has no place here, affection.//  
At least it's what Maddy perceives.

But Madeline knows her thoughts are colored, she knows  
herself too much and thinks endlessly. She understands  
she could be wrong. Besides it seems as though here  
there are no Players. Madeline decides to thank Joyce.  
She walks with careful measured steps, back to the  
woman still sitting in a chair, Maddy bends and gives  
Joyce a nice, warm hug. Kisses Joyce on the cheek for  
good measure, dove feather gentle.

"You know...I always think I ought to have kept my  
feet bare more often."

Madeline turns and walks away.

"How will I know?"

"You'll recognize her."

Mrs. Summers sits at the table by herself.

A haze is returning, puffs of smoke but not smoke.  
Shrouds of misty something, and Madeline is parting  
through and almost gone. Is she walking through the  
clouds? Suddenly the walls have ceased. What's  
happened to the door? It's a hypothetical question.  
Joyce supposes, yes, it is as it should be. Everything  
feels nice and mellow. Joyce recalls a Corona ad, a  
laid back feel of normalcy in the shade of palm tree.  
A peaceful beach, the sound of a calm susurration of  
waves.

She hopes Madeline will kick off her shoes. Later.  
Whatwhere and whenever.

In a tone which cannot be called recognition nor  
acceptance, lacking tensions or mood of anything but  
_being_ while thinking //It's different here. That's  
all there is to it, just different-// Joyce calls out  
to the retreating figure.

"I'm not worried." 

Joyce wonders if she's really hearing the strains of  
Bob Marley vouching that everything's gonna be  
alright.

To which Madeline replies sincerely: "Good."

 

~end~


End file.
